


Places Where the Cold Can't Be

by WizardSandwich



Series: Toaster Fics [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sad feelings, Unsure relationship, a bit of a vent fic actually but not really, no editing i die like the sad fucker i am, or like?, that's all that matters, then happy feelings, there's mentions of blaster but he and toaster are going through a rough patch, they'll fix it eventually, they're gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22155997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardSandwich/pseuds/WizardSandwich
Summary: It's a bad day for Toaster.
Relationships: Toaster/Jazz
Series: Toaster Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594627
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Places Where the Cold Can't Be

**Author's Note:**

> just love toaster/jazz my dudes, but i'm not sure i wrote jazz good so uh i'm sorry.
> 
> if you like my stuff find my @tasteful-robot-loving on tumblr!

Toaster’s whole frame feels cold. It’s not an unusual feeling, though, the phantom cold wrapping itself around his frame. He’s long gotten used to dealing with it. He knows how to push himself off of his berth. He knows how to make himself wash and move and _function._ He even knows how to get to his shift in the lower decks of the Lost Light.

So he does. He makes himself do all of those things—except fuel. It never sits right in his tanks when he wakes up on days like these, never goes down right, so he never really bothers. Part of his processor whispers about how worried Blaster would be until he remembers that they’re… distant? Awkward at best.

Mostly, he can make himself get through his shift too. He’s not great with ships, but he has a passable knowledge that lets him run diagnostics as he slips into the spaces where important lines run. He only has to make himself lean against the wall and _not_ cry twice. He tides himself over with the knowledge that he can lay in his berth when he’s done.

Until he doesn’t, because he doesn’t know he to deal with the pretty—familiar— _pretty familiar_ voice that calls out, “Toaster!”

It’s bright and kinder than Toaster would ever hope to remember. Jazz’s voice is all honey and silk. He speaks like he’s comfortable and at home and like Toaster is a friend. Or maybe all of that is just in Toaster’s processor. It doesn’t stop the bit of warmth that blooms in Toaster’s spark.

“Jazz?” He turns, says the designation even when he knows that: _yes, this is Jazz_. It tastes like sweetened energon on his lips. “What’re you doing here?”

Jazz’s visor is bright with something that Toaster wants to assume is joy. His plating is a bit scuffed and dirty, but it’s nothing unexpected. Jazz’s arms come up in a gesture that Toaster belatedly recognizes as an offering.

Jazz wants to hug him.

“I was nearby and I doubt you’re stayin’ on Cybertron with Blaster here,” Jazz says casually. His arms don’t drop, even when Toaster takes a moment to process the offer.

It takes Toaster another moment to realize that he’s practically lunged at the mech and a few more to realize that Jazz has caught him. His grin is even wider as he adjusts his grips to properly hold Toaster. “You sure are happy to see lil’ old me,” Jazz jokes lightly.

Toaster doesn’t want to admit it, even as he wraps his arms around Jazz’s waist. He tries to think of something to say but can only shrug, “Been a long time since I had a Jazz hug, you know?”

Jazz’s voice is amused, “Ah, yes, your needed supply of Jazz hugs has been lacking.”

One of Jazz’s servos comes up to brush against Toaster’s helm kibble. His digits run gently of the almost wing like shapes that protrude from Toaster’s audials.

Toaster laughs and the warmth feels a bit bigger. He doesn’t feel like he needs to cry anymore—for now at least; moments like those always come back later.

“Gonna refill it for me?” Toaster asks lightly, teasingly, but his grip tightens. He doesn’t quite want to let go of Jazz, this mech who has always been good to him.

“You know I will,” Jazz agrees. “Now, I heard from a not-so-little red and gold birdy that you were off-shift at this time?”

 _Blaster._ It was… nice… to know that his brother still kept track of him even in times like this. When bonds were turbulent and conversations even more so. He should really try to talk to him more in spite of the distance they’d allowed to grow between them.

“Yeah.” Toaster takes a moment to check his chronometer. “You’re just in time, actually. You want to get a drink?”

And part of Toaster forgets that Jazz is a spy and has known him for years. And that he saw Toaster before Toaster saw him.

“Nah, mech, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jazz says.

He finally lets go of Toaster. Toaster follows the wordless command and pulls back. He can feel the frown that pulls at his lips and hopes he can make it a little less. It doesn’t work, based on the way Jazz frowns back, revealing laugh lines from millennia of smiling.

“Why not?” Toaster asks. His bites his glossa trying not to say anything else. If he can’t even do this then what is there? Surely Jazz doesn’t—

“Why don’t we go and chill in your room?” Jazz suggests. His smile slowly comes back and his visor glints in the way it does when he has a plan that he thinks is good. “Catch up.”

Toaster shrugs but follows as Jazz begins striding out of the lower levels. His stride is casual but confident in a way that has always enamored Toaster. He wishes he could be as extraordinary as Jazz, sometimes.

Like now, when the cold comes seeping back into his frame, bit by bit.

Jazz asks, “What’s your hab number?” when they get to the residential part of the ship. Toaster offers it up and Jazz walks through the Lost Light like—a spec ops mech in a new but unlikely to be hostile environment. Cautious, but bold. He walks like he needs to be known, like he owns the place. It’s a tactic that Toaster himself has never been able to master.

There are very few mechs in the halls, what with the return to Cybertron, but the few that are around greet Jazz and take no mind of Toaster. It’s not unusual, but part of it still stings.

“You okay?” Jazz asks, even as they stop in front of Toaster’s door, even as Toaster punches in his code.

Toaster is one of the lucky few whose roommates decided to hop off at Cybertron, so half of the room is despairingly empty. Toaster’s side of the room isn’t even that well-furnished. War had never afforded anyone any sort of souvenirs unless they were of a special sort of odd.

“’m fine, Jazz,” Toaster assures, slipping past him.

Toaster’s berth looks cozy and nice, but Jazz is here and he really can’t—shouldn’t—recharge now. Not even if the cold seeps into every part of his frame and eats him whole.

“You don’t look fine,” Jazz says and Toaster can hear the calculation in his voice. He doesn’t even have to turn and look at him to know his expression is twisted into something resembling concern and determination. It’s not a new expression for Jazz.

Toaster shrugs helplessly and doesn’t bother to think of a response, just stares at his berth.

Jazz seems to catch on based on the way he slips past Toaster. He makes himself cozy on the few pillows and blankets that Toaster has requisitioned from organic planets. His frame looks natural and relaxed in the piles of meshes and fabrics.

“You gonna join me?” Jazz asks, pressing himself into a pillow and making himself comfortable.

And Toaster has really never loved Jazz and his ability to make Toaster comfortable and safe and okay more than now. He slides beside Jazz and cuddles up next to the warmth of his frame. It reminds him of his days in spec ops but mostly… it reminds him of why he should stay.


End file.
